25

When you use the media, they end up using you. The mother of one of Byrne’s victims, Judith Levenson, had drilled those words into Mickey’s head early on, during the first few months after Claire’s abduction. Always remember they’re after your tears. That’s all they care about. They want you to cry, scream, swear – they want you to have a breakdown on camera, and the only way they can try to make that happen is by provoking you with the sort of questions that will make you want to beat the living daylights out of them. When they ask these questions – and they will, over and over again – always remember to focus on your daughter. Always remember that alongside every stupid question are cameras and tape recorders that are going to take whatever you say and do and run it on TV and online, along with your daughter’s story and picture. The longer you keep Claire out there, the more likely it is that someone will come forward with useful information. You stand there and be as nice as pie to them because there will come a day when you’ll need them.

For the next five days, no matter where Mickey went, when a journalist cornered him, he would, in a strained but pleasant tone, answer the same mind-numbing questions over and over again, answer them as though hearing them for the first time. Yes, I’m sure it was my daughter’s jacket on the monument. No, I can’t explain why Byrne called 911 and reported finding the jacket. No, I don’t know the status of the jacket, what the police found – all I know is that they’re working hard on it. No, I don’t know why the police haven’t arrested Byrne yet. I don’t know much of anything at the moment. You have to talk to the police. Go to the police. Speak to the police.

The day after Byrne called the police about finding the jacket on the memorial, police searched Byrne’s house. If they found anything, they weren’t saying. Chris Kennedy held two press conferences – smoke-and-mirror shows of ‘We’re working on several leads at the moment’, followed by the ever popular ‘No comment’. Kennedy was holding his cards close to his chest; he wasn’t going to give away any information.

Darby hadn’t conducted any interviews and, as far as he could tell, her name hadn’t appeared in any news stories. Mickey had reached out to her a few times, hoping to get the inside line, but she never answered her phone, and she hadn’t returned his phone calls. She had, however, sent him a text promising to get in touch with him soon.

By the end of the work-week and with nothing fresh to feast on, the media went into a temporary state of hibernation. Reporters, cameramen and news vans were still lingering around Belham, and mostly around Byrne’s house, hoping to capture fresh footage of the dying recluse.

Mickey’s PO, Frank Towne, decided to pop Mickey’s job site for an unannounced breathalyser and piss test. Mickey had passed the breathalyser but had forgotten to lock the urine sample, and it had spilled inside Towne’s briefcase. The man left in a huff, and it brought Mickey the first genuine smile since … well, he couldn’t remember.

Every morning, from five to six, even in the dead of winter, Father Keith Cullen ran the track at Belham High School. Mickey knew this because back in high school he used to run the track in the early morning to keep in shape for football. Oftentimes they ran together and talked about any number of subjects, the priest not at all shy about voicing his opinions on Sean Flynn.

On a drizzling Friday morning, Mickey headed out to the high school. Father Keith wasn’t there, so Mickey called the man’s cell. Back when they were married, he and Heather had synched their phones using the same computer and shared the same list of contacts.

Father Cullen’s number was no longer in service. Mickey drove to the rectory, only to be told the priest was unavailable. The secretary promised to give Father Cullen the message. The priest never called back.

That night, Mickey went home, to sleep in his own bed. Since the story of the jacket broke, he’d been sleeping on Jim’s couch to stay away from the media, which had, for the past week, been pretty much parked out in front of his house. Thank God they were gone.

The next morning, he awoke to someone ringing his doorbell. He glanced at the clock on the nightstand. 5.12 a.m.

The doorbell rang again. Again.

Has to be a goddamn reporter, Mickey thought, sliding out of bed. They had no shame, ringing the doorbell and knocking at all hours; cameraman coming up to the windows, hoping to catch some footage. He was willing to bet they didn’t pull this shit at Byrne’s house.

He went to the bedroom window and looked out at the driveway and street. He didn’t see a news van or any vehicle to indicate the presence of a reporter or TV cameraman, and from this angle he couldn’t see who was standing at the front door. Whoever was there was now knocking on the front door in addition to ringing the doorbell.

Mickey padded barefoot downstairs, dressed in a pair of boxers and an old and nearly threadbare Budweiser T-shirt. He punched in the code for the alarm and then undid the locks and cracked opened the door to Sean Flynn.

‘The fuck you doing here?’

‘Good morning to you too,’ Sean replied.

‘What do you want?’

‘I’ve got some important news that pertains to you and what happened to my granddaughter.’

Mickey bristled at him using the word ‘granddaughter’, but he let it slide, more interested in trying to read his old man. He didn’t have that particular talent when it came to Sean – no one did. Anyone who had tried to figure out what was going on in Sean’s head at any given time, what made him tick, usually walked away sweaty and pale, shaken.

‘You gonna invite me in?’ Sean asked. ‘It’s colder than the hinges of hell out here.’

Mickey reluctantly stepped aside. Sean came in, dressed in jeans, gloves and a brand-new goose-down North Face jacket. He took off his Scally cap as Mickey shut the door.

‘You’re looking good,’ Sean said. ‘Lean and mean, as always.’

The same could be said of him. Sean was lean, always had been, the meanness and hair-trigger rage somehow preserving him. His hair was greyer, his tanned face a bit more weathered from decades spent baking in the sun, but his old man, even at seventy-whatever-the-fuck-he-was, unquestionably still possessed the confident, youthful swagger that had made him a successful street brawler and killer.

‘Police know you’re in town?’ Mickey asked. They were standing in the kitchen.

‘No, and I’d appreciate it if you kept that quiet.’ Sean started to unzip his jacket.

‘Keep it on,’ Mickey said. ‘You won’t be staying that long.’

If the words affected Sean in any way, he didn’t show it. He turned his attention to the kitchen table, which was stacked with mail, a lot of it letters from crazies claiming to know what Byrne had done to Claire. There were a lot of prayer cards, too, from people he’d never met, and a lot of letters from so-called psychics. Sean picked up a piece of pink stationary, the words MADAME CLARA, WORLD RENOWNED INTERNATIONAL PSYCHIC printed at the top, along with her picture.

‘Christ,’ Sean said. ‘This broad hit every branch of the ugly tree.’ He tossed the paper back to the table, shaking his head. ‘I hope you’re not entertaining any ideas about those people. They’re evil.’

‘You said you had something important to tell me.’

‘All this time, your circumstances, I thought it would’ve made you a bit more forgiving.’

Mickey thought of Dr Solares’s comments about Sean reaching out, looking for forgiveness, and said, ‘You want forgiveness, St Stephen’s is in the other direction.’

‘You know Byrne’s dying,’ Sean said. ‘I mean he’s going to buy the farm any day now.’

‘That’s your newsflash?’

‘His nightstand and kitchen table are full of all kinds of meds – morphine, Demerol, Prozac, you name it. It’s amazing the son of a bitch can walk, he’s so doped up.’

Mickey started to speak, then stopped.

Sean had been inside Byrne’s house.

‘You mind if I take off my jacket and sit and talk?’ Sean asked. ‘Or would you still like for me to go?’

‘What were you doing inside Byrne’s house?’

‘Put on some coffee.’

Mickey did, Sean lighting a cigarette with a gold lighter embossed with the Marine emblem, the lighter a fixture from Mickey’s childhood for as long as he could remember. He had finished nearly half his cigarette when Mickey returned to the table with an ashtray and sat.

Sean smoked, eyeing him up and down, as if trying to come to a conclusion.

‘Lot of weird shit going down in that house,’ Sean said after a moment. ‘Guy’s got Christmas lights and decorations hung around his bedroom and living room. He’s got toys all over the place too, these –’

‘Toys?’

‘What I said. Paul told me –’

‘Paul who?’

‘You gonna let me talk, or are you gonna cross-examine me?’

Mickey leaned back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest.

Sean took a long drag from his cigarette. ‘Paul is Paul Ward, one of Byrne’s bodyguards. I hear you met him the other day at the grocery store.’ Sean smiled.

Mickey said nothing.

‘Paul did some babysitting for Byrne for a bit way back when, after that number you did on Byrne. The priest was afraid you’d go after him again. Now, with my granddaughter’s jacket being found, Byrne gave Paul a call again. Paul and this other guy are with him around the clock.’

Sean stubbed out his cigarette. ‘This shit with Christmas decorations and toys, it’s called regression. Byrne’s hospice nurse said that can happen when a patient is dying. He goes back to happier times in his life, know what I mean?’

‘She told you this?’

‘Of course not. I had a – a whatchamacallit –’ He snapped his fingers impatiently. ‘Had an intermediary get the info ’cause she’s under strict orders from your friends on the force not to say so much as hello to you.’ Sean lit another cigarette, peered at Mickey through the smoke. ‘When Byrne’s lucid, which isn’t much of the time, he talks a lot to his lawyer. He’s terrified of dying in jail, our hometown priest. Lawyer keeps telling him not to worry.’

Jesus. He’s bugged the place.

‘I think it’s time Byrne talks,’ Sean said, Mickey hearing that effortless, magnetic confidence in the old man’s voice and remembering how his mother had responded to it time and time again, believing he’d keep his anger in check the next time, promise not to drive his point home with his fists.

‘I’m not asking you to get involved,’ Sean said.

‘What are you asking?’

‘When I’m done with him, if the police come around and start asking questions, I may need an alibi.’

Not once had Mickey crossed the line into his old man’s other life. Growing up, when any of Sean’s low-life friends had stopped by to play cards or talk business, Mickey would leave the house. He didn’t want to know Sean’s business, terrified he’d accidentally overhear something that would slowly devour his soul.

‘So,’ Sean said. ‘Can I count on you?’

‘Let the police handle this.’

Sean took a long drag from his cigarette, eyed him through the smoke.

‘That what you really want?’

Mickey nodded.

‘You think the cops are doing such a great job, why’d you drop by Byrne’s house last week?’

‘You do anything to screw this up, you get involved in any way, I swear to Christ, Sean, I’ll tell the police about this conversation.’

Sean’s eyes took on a disturbing vacant quality. ‘The night you went after Byrne? You were at McCarthy’s, downing that cheap-ass whiskey that tastes like paint thinner.’

Mickey had no memory of seeing him that night.

‘You and I had ourselves a real heart-to-heart,’ Sean said.

Mickey wanted to call bullshit. Even at his worst, he wouldn’t share anything with Sean. Then again, he didn’t remember much from that night. It was amazing, really, in the state he was in that he had not only arrived at Byrne’s but had also got there in one piece.

‘What you did to that piece of shit?’ Sean said. ‘I was real proud of you.’

‘It was an accident.’

‘That the crap you sell yourself when you’re shaving in the mirror?’ Sean chuckled. ‘There’s nothing wrong with taking pleasure in your work. If it were me, though, I would’ve –’

‘Stay away from this.’

Mickey’s phone rang. It was sitting on the kitchen table, right next to his wallet and keys. DARBY MCCORMICK appeared on the screen.

Mickey didn’t pick up the phone.

‘Go ahead and answer,’ Sean said, smiling. ‘I’ll get us some coffee.’

Mickey took the call, his eyes tracking Sean.

‘Hey.’

‘Hope I didn’t wake you up. You told me you’re an early riser, like me.’

‘No, I’m up.’ Mickey watched his old man rooting around the cabinets, searching for the mugs, and felt a sense of violation he couldn’t quite put into words.

‘I wanted to see if we could talk,’ Darby said. ‘I’m about five minutes away from your house. I can –’

‘Let me take you to breakfast.’ Mickey did not want Darby to meet Sean – didn’t want her to know that Sean was back in town. The police had a major hard-on for Sean, wanting to put him away. Mickey didn’t want his life complicated any further by cops coming around, asking questions about his old man.

‘You don’t have to take me to breakfast,’ Darby said.

‘I want to. To apologize for being, you know –’

‘A complete and utter asshole?’ Darby offered.

‘Yeah. That.’ Mickey chuckled. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt a sliver of relief, tasted a bit of humour. ‘I’ll meet you at J & M in ten.’

‘It’s still around?’

‘One of the few things left from when we were growing up. See you in a few.’

Mickey hung up and got to his feet.

Sean said, ‘You’re putting all your chips on Big Red’s daughter?’

‘They brought her in to –’

‘Consult,’ Sean finished for him. ‘Yeah, I know all about it.’

Of course you do, Mickey thought.

‘McCormick talked to the priest,’ Sean said. ‘Had themselves a little sit down.’

Mickey nodded. He had got word from Jim’s cop buddy Win that Darby had spoken with Byrne, but he didn’t know the contents of their conversation – and he desperately wanted to know, it was eating at him, not knowing what Byrne had said (or hadn’t said), if the lab had found anything on his daughter’s jacket – he had a laundry list of questions to ask her.

‘She tell you what they discussed?’ Sean asked, saying it in a way that suggested he had a transcript of the conversation.

And maybe he did. Sean had bugged the house. Had he recorded the conversation?

The thought of it loosened the tightness Mickey had been carrying in his chest since discovering his daughter’s jacket. He straightened a bit, Sean catching something in his expression or body language or both because Sean had that grin on his face, the one that announced he held something valuable to you – only he wasn’t going to give it to you right away. First, he was going to dangle it in front of your face. Taunt you with it, make you beg.

‘She didn’t tell you, did she?’ Sean said.

‘She gave me the broad strokes,’ Mickey lied. ‘Did you record the conversation?’

‘No.’

‘But you heard it. What did Byrne say?’

‘Why you asking? You said she already told you.’ Sean took a sip of his coffee. ‘I hope you’re thinking with the head on top of your shoulders and not the one dangling between your legs.’

‘Thanks for stopping by, Sean. Always a pleasure.’

‘Hey, I’m just looking out for you. But, since she’s back in town, you should tear yourself off a piece, get your pipes cleaned. It’ll help you think straight.’

Sean put down his mug and then crossed his arms over his chest, his eyes turning thoughtful. Serious.

‘Byrne talks a lot in his sleep. I haven’t been able to make out much, but when he goes to bed, he plays these … these recordings, I guess you could call ’em.’

‘Recordings? Of what?’

‘Hard to say. He keeps the volume down low, so I can’t make out what’s being said. But I hear crying. Sounds like little girls crying to me.’

Mickey felt his muscles seize up. His stomach dropped and kept dropping, the edges of his vision turning black.

‘You get sick of being jerked around and want to get to the truth – when you really want to find out what he did to your daughter – my granddaughter,’ Sean said, ‘call McCarthy’s and leave a message with the owner there, George. He knows how to get in touch with me.’